


Poison

by augusta_brie



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Questionable Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augusta_brie/pseuds/augusta_brie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tastes of poison, bitter and tart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintlysinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintlysinner/gifts).



Bianchi tastes of poison, bitter and tart. It lingers on her lips, laces her tongue, and Hayato’s world blurs as he swallows it down. She burns – the taste, the heat, the _thought_ – and Hayato chokes as light fingers dance across the bob of his Adam’s apple, the crotch of his trousers. There are whispers (sweet and toxic, because Hayato is learning that words can be spiked far easier than chocolates) pressed into his hair. Hayato curves upward, intoxicated, caught.

And it’s poison, surely poison, but Hayato is unsure if it’s been slipped into something he’s stupidly eaten or if it’s how he’s being consumed by Bianchi’s gaze, consumed whole and broken down into nothing but pieces of shameful desire.

 _Move with me,_ she murmurs, _come with me_. Her fingers lace with his, drawing him in away from the wall, guiding him backwards. He stumbles, slurred, his heart thumping and his palms glossy with sweat. He shouldn’t think she’s beautiful like this, all come hither eyes and a dark, snakeskin smirk. Hayato’s spent years with his stomach in knots each time he’s dared catch sight of those high cheekbones and green eyes, but that knot has slipped loose, slick now with a tortured, rigid heat.

It isn’t right. This, this … It _can’t-_

He moves with her, goes with her. Let’s her lead him, spin him until he’s stumbling backwards, backwards, down.

There is a gasp (his, Hayato thinks desperately, trying to suck it back in as Bianchi’s laughter fumes the air pink and heady), and the bed's too soft. Not at all as hard and unrelenting as his own. Clammy fingers twists in the sheets as Hayato searches for something – anything – to ground him in anything other than the curl of Bianchi’s lips. This can’t be happening here, in his new found respectability with its soft focus and sharp blades. He’s fought too hard to find something that’s right, something that _fits-_

Bianchi’s laughter is light against his ear, her teeth sinking into his earlobe and Hayato hisses, arching up into panic and heat and poison and blood.

“Oh, Hayato,” she murmurs, so gentle and sympathetic that Hayato’s not breathing, can’t breathe because he can _taste_ her scent on his tongue. “In what world have either of us ever been right?” 

Hayato’s frozen as Bianchi moves backwards, chilled through to his bones by a familiar ice that is a decade old, 5 years old, 2 years and three months old and crowded with too many empty spaces that somehow just take and take and _take-_

He arches up, into panic and heat and poison and blood, brushing desperate lips against a blood-red mouth.

And Hayato takes.


End file.
